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  ANNE MATHER

  Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

  This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

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  I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

  I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

  These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

  We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

  Jake Howard’s Wife

  Anne Mather

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE inter-city express was nearing King's Cross. It was running between the high tenement buildings that did not endear this section of the city to its planners. More contemporary were the soaring skyscrapers, as ugly in their way as the tenements; slabs of concrete and glass, stark and impersonal. At least the tenements had lines of grimy washing outside to advertise human habitation. The skyscraper flats could have been some kind of monolithic temples to the gods.

  Jake Howard glanced up from the papers strewn on the table in front of him and registered his whereabouts with a faint flicker of surprise. London; only two and a half hours after leaving York. How easy it was to get about these days! He could have flown down, of course, but he enjoyed the train journey. It reminded him of his youth, of his first impressions of the big city, of the young, inexperienced fool he had been then.

  A steward tapped on the window of his private compartment and with an imperative gesture Jake indicated that the man could enter.

  ‘Only five minutes to King's Cross, Mr Howard,’ he said, politely, deferentially. ‘Is there anything else you need, sir? Another drink, perhaps?'

  Jake shook his head, and sliding his hand into his trousers’ pocket drew out a five-pound note. ‘Nothing else, thank you,’ he replied, handing the man the note. ‘But you can arrange for the luggage to be taken to my car when we arrive.'

  ‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir. I hope you've had a pleasant journey.'

  Jake's grey eyes narrowed ironically. ‘Reasonably so, thank you,’ he drawled.

  The steward smiled politely and withdrew. After he had gone Jake began to thrust his scattered papers back into his briefcase. During the course of the journey he had been able to complete his assessment of the Havilland deal and he felt confident that there would be no hitches there. Havilland Chemicals would soon be part of the Howard Foundation, and that pleased him enormously. Of course, he would need to discuss the details with Sinclair in the morning, but that was merely a formality.

  He finished putting his papers away, and taking out a case of cigars put one between his teeth. He lit it casually, resting his dark head against the soft upholstery. Outside the train's slightly misted windows the lights of the town glimmered brightly. It was after seven and it was too late in the year to expect the light to last much longer. It was cold, too. He had felt it as he waited for the train on the station at York; the sharp biting blast of an east wind accentuating the already cold October weather. After the heat of the west coast of the United States it was doubly chilling.

  He smiled to himself. What a way to return to London from California; via Glasgow, and York railway station! But it was his usual practice. He always spent his first night back in England with his mother, and as she lived in Selby, in Yorkshire, he invariably flew into Prestwick and travelled south from there.

  His thoughts moved on, over the irritating moments of changing from train to his chauffeur-driven limousine, to his eventual arrival at his own home, his house in an elegant square in Belgravia. And to Helen, his wife…

  His lips twisted as he thought of Helen. By now she would have received the flowers he had despatched from Glasgow, and would no doubt be ready and waiting to greet him. He drew deeply on his cigar recalling the exquisite appointments of his house, anticipating with the pleasure of possession an evening spent in his wife's company, when he would regale her with the details of his trip.

  And she would listen. Helen always listened, he thought disparagingly, and felt again the amazement he had felt three years ago when she had accepted his proposal and agreed to become his wife.

  Then, of course, he had despised her. All his life he had had to strive to make his successful way in life. Born the son of a Yorkshire weaver, he had had to work hard to achieve any kind of position, spending all his days and nights, too, furthering his education, dragging himself up by his finger nails towards his goal. He would have gone to any lengths to succeed. He had a ready charm, and was quite prepared to use it to get what he wanted. He flattered and was pleasant to people he secretly found contemptible, he charmed people, men and women alike, and his innate intelligence was sufficient to guarantee him not to put a foot wrong. Unlike his father he was not interested in the mill; he was interested in chemicals. From an early age, he had found the study of substances and how they were formed fascinating, and a degree at Leeds University paved the way for greater things. He had the good fortune to get a job as laboratory assistant in a small chemical works near Selby, and although at the time his friends and relations thought he was a fool for confining his talents to such a small laboratory when he could have got a job with one of the larger concerns, Jake was already thinking ahead. By making himself indispensable to Mr Quarton, the works’ managing director, and charming to Quarton's wife, it became a natural process for Quarton to take him on as a director of the firm. It was a short step from there to the chairman's position, and Jake was nothing if not persistent.

  Now he tapped ash into the fitted tray and moved his shoulders wryly. He supposed he ought to feel some shame, some remorse at the way he had systematically gained control of Quartons and in so doing laid himself open for bigger b
ids. When the offer came he had no compunction about destroying the smaller firm in order to get a seat on the board of a larger company.

  After that, it became easy, and in some ways less satisfying. He had been used to using his brain to its ultimate ability and even today, with his own foundation and more than a million pounds in stocks and shares, he refused to delegate duty.

  Three years ago, when he met Helen, he had been on the lookout for a wife, a suitable wife, of course. There had been plenty of women on his rise to the top; office girls and models, the wives of some of his colleagues, all of whom had shown themselves more than willing to make themselves indispensable to him.

  But in spite of the quantity, it was quality Jake was looking for. As in all things, only the best would do. And that was when he met Helen Forsythe.

  He had known her father some years before, Gerard Forsythe, and had considered him a pleasant, if somewhat dilatory, member of the London social set. Gerard's father had been Sir Edwin Forsythe, Bart., of Mallins, near Aylesbury, but unfortunately Gerard had been the younger son and in consequence his brother had inherited the title. But for all that Gerard Forsythe had exactly the kind of background Jake would have chosen had he had the chance. That Gerard had squandered the money his father left him meant little to Jake. In Gerard's position he knew he could have made the money work for him, but just because Gerard hadn't didn't alter his social position.

  However, when Gerard died, in a motor accident after a particularly bad evening at the card tables, Helen was left almost penniless at only twenty-three years of age.

  She could have got a job, of course, Jake realised that, but up until the time of her father's accident and the subsequent scandal it engendered, she had been practically engaged to Keith Mannering, son of the barrister, Geoffrey Mannering, and had spent her time enjoying herself. There had been skiing at St Moritz, and the Bahamas in late autumn, and the usual London social season to fill her days, and the idea of any other kind of life had not crossed her mind. But when her father was killed and Keith became rather elusive she was left high and dry, with only a small private income, inherited from her maternal grandmother, to live on. She had been well educated, had spent two years at a finishing school in Switzerland, and could speak several languages fluently. But apart from organising dinner parties and entertaining her father's guests she had never had to work in her life.

  Jake had met her quite by accident at the Shaftesbury Theatre. He and some friends had been having a drink in the bar during the interval when Helen came in with a notable young married couple. Helen had been at school with the wife, and almost out of compassion for her they had invited her to join them for the evening. And as the husband was Giles St John, a close friend and business associate of Jake's, it was natural that the two should be introduced.

  Jake had been escorting a rather exotic young woman from the Portuguese Embassy that evening and he had thought Helen had looked rather coolly on the Portuguese girl's attempts to display her proprietorial claim on Jake. He could not imagine Helen, with her Scandinavian fair beauty, her tall, slim, young body, and cool blue eyes ever succumbing to such a display, and it was in that moment that the seed of his idea had been formed.

  He knew of Helen's situation, of course. It was common knowledge among the set he moved in, and he thought he saw something like challenge in the cool gaze she cast in his direction. It was unusual for him, for women usually found his lean dark features attractive. But Helen Forsythe looked at him as if he was a particularly obnoxious species of animal brought in for her inspection, and for the first time in his life he was aware of his northern accent only lightly veneered with polish.

  He had contacted her the following day and asked to see her again. She had refused, and there-after for several weeks she did the same. And then one day he called, and he could tell from the tone of her voice over the telephone that something was wrong. She agreed to meet him for dinner that evening and over the meal he got it out of her that the house she was living in was going to have to be sold. It was too great a drain on her resources, and she was at her wits’ end to know where to turn. Gerard had been ostracised by his own family for his irresponsible ways and she refused to consider contacting them. Jake listened to her pour out her troubles, offered advice and sympathy, and left it there.

  He telephoned her every day for a fortnight, sometimes inviting her out, sometimes merely asking how she was. He began to be aware, by a subtle change in her attitude, that she was beginning to rely on those phone calls. So he stopped them, and for over a week he did not contact her at all. It was like a business deal. He used strategy; uncaring that in this instance he was dealing with a human being, not a company.

  When he contacted her again she was desperate, and that was when he put his proposition to her. He was not attracted to her, she was too cold, too controlled to appeal to his sensual nature. But she was ideal for his purpose.

  To begin with his proposal had staggered her. Although the idea of becoming his wife had apparently not occurred to her she did not appear to find the prospect entirely objectionable. But his terms of reference, as he phrased it, were. He explained quite coolly that he did not want a wife in anything but name. He wanted her as an elegant possession to grace his table, to entertain his guests when necessary, and to be a pleasing advertisement of his taste in women.

  His proposal had one definite effect. It froze the thawing of her attitude towards him so that she became again the cool, aloof female he had first encountered in the Shaftesbury Theatre bar.

  Of course she accepted, as he had known she would, and that was why he despised her. He would have regarded her much more favourably if she had refused him, if she had shown a bit of spunk and set to work to organise her affairs. In consequence, he saw her only as a helpless creature, prepared to accept a man she obviously disliked as her husband rather than dirty her hands.

  His own mother had been horrified. His father had died during the years of his rise to success and although he had wanted to bring his mother to London to share his home she refused to leave the house where she had spent so many happy years with Jake's father. But in spite of the differences in their outlook, in their positions in society, Jake still regarded his mother as the most admirable woman he had ever met.

  Helen met his mother at the wedding. It was a fashionable affair, paid for by Jake, of course, to which all Helen's erstwhile friends came to wish her well. Jake wondered whether Helen actually believed their excuses of polite regret at not having seen her for so long, or whether she would take up their eager invitations. He was well aware that by marrying him she was putting herself back into that privileged society where possessions counted for so much more than personality.

  Jake's mother had been out of place at the wedding as he had known she would be, just as Helen was out of place with her. Mrs Howard had never been one to mince words and she made it painfully clear that she considered her son could have done much better. Her working-class morality revolted against this thing Jake was perpetrating, for even she could see that his emotions were in no way involved with this cool, haughty girl.

  And yet, in spite of the incongruity of its beginnings, the arrangement had worked well for both of them. Jake's work took him abroad a lot and in the three years of their married life they had only spent about three months together. But for all that, Helen was there on those occasions when Jake needed her, and if their relationship had never progressed beyond the bounds of polite strangers, they were at least civil with one another, which was more than could be said for many of their acquaintances.

  Jake had discovered that she had exquisite taste in furnishing and decoration, and his house in Belgravia had become quite a showplace. With an unlimited supply of money, Helen had allowed her talent free rein, and Jake was comfortably aware that his friends considered him a very lucky man to have such an accomplished as well as decorative wife.

  The train was running into King's Cross now and Jake got to his feet a
nd reached for his sheepskin coat. He put it on and then raked a careless hand through the thick darkness of his hair. He was a big man, tall and broad, yet he moved with the lithe feline grace of a panther. He was not handsome, no one could accuse him of that. His nose had been broken in fights at school and his forty years had carved lines of experience beside his mouth and eyes. Yet for all that, women seemed to find him very attractive, although he was not foolish enough to imagine that his material wealth did not add to the image.

  The brakes ground into the iron wheels and the big diesel engine brought its load to a screeching halt at the barrier. Jake picked up his briefcase and emerged into the corridor just as the steward appeared with his cases. Latimer, his chauffeur, was waiting on the platform and he touched his cap politely when he saw Jake.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Had a good journey?'

  ‘Fine, thank you, Latimer. Are you well? Your wife?'

  It was the usual greeting, the usual small talk as they walked down the platform to where the big limousine was waiting for them. The steward carried the cases, and passed them over to Latimer as they reached the car.

  Jake slid behind the wheel and waited, lighting another cigar, tapping his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. Now that he was here in London he was impatient to be home. It was more than three months since he had left for the United States.

  Latimer finished stowing the luggage in the boot and came round to climb into the passenger's seat. Jake always preferred to drive himself unless he had work to do. The big car moved smoothly away and Jake relaxed. The snarl-ups of traffic in the city were of little consequence after the boardroom tactics he had had to face in San Francisco, and it was a relief to put all that behind him and concentrate on more ordinary things.

  ‘How is Mrs Howard, Latimer?’ Jake changed down rapidly and stood on his brakes as a brilliantly painted Mini shot across in front of him. ‘Did she get my flowers?'